


The Sport of Bright Steel

by Marivan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crusades, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Outsider, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marivan/pseuds/Marivan
Summary: In the shadow of a great wall, the longsword met another of the strange curved blades andoh this one’s different.~~~aka the start of Nicky and Joe's relationship, as told by Nicky's longsword.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	The Sport of Bright Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kinkmeme prompt: "I want a fic about their progressing relationship from the POV of their swords."  
> Haven't written fic in over a decade, but The Old Guard fan communities on tumblr and discord have brought me back into the fold: thank you all!

The longsword belonging to the man from Genoa was no stranger to blood. With it’s point pressed to the hard, sandy earth and the man’s hands crossed on the pommel as he kneeled, the longsword knew blood and battle were at hand. Any moment the mumbling man would rise, yank the tip of the blade from the ground and sheath the weapon. Minutes, hours later -- the longsword could not say exactly -- it would be pulled forth and it’s blade would bite into enemy flesh.

Such went the day. The sword clashed off of metal armor and weapons, vibrating with frustration. It sank into flesh, horse and human, whetted its appetite for blood. It felt the man from Genoa’s sweat soak into the leather grip, felt the desperation in the slight tremor in the man’s arms.

In the shadow of a great wall, the longsword met another of the strange curved blades and _oh this one’s different._ As sharpened edges kissed and cut at each other, the sword sang in resonance with his curved companion. The wielder of the curved blade kept the longsword from drinking too deeply of his flesh, but the sips were foul and hateful to the longsword. Of all men, the sword took no pleasure in causing this one pain. Nevertheless the two men and their blades continued, singing against each other and spitting out the hateful taste of each other’s blood.

And then it happened. The curved blade slashed up just a moment too late and the longsword plunged into the other man’s dark, wet, heat, withdrew, and clattered to the dusty earth as the man from Genoa’s grip went slack.

Moments later the man from Genoa, the same man from Genoa -- _Wait, the same man? How was that possible?_ \-- grabbed the longsword’s pommel, readjusted his palms around the grip, and surged forward. The longsword rejoiced against the same curved blade, sipped of the same foul blood, fell once again upon the dusty ground. Again and again and again.

Finally, the longsword’s edge just, almost gently touched the edge of the curved blade and the man from Genoa exchanged a few short words with the other blade’s wielder. Without warning, the longsword was slid into his scabbard. Filthy, tired, poised to rejoin the fight.

Over the next hours, days-- the longsword could not say exactly -- the longsword was hardly parted from the man from Genoa. The sword sat a fixture on his hip. It laid alongside the man, beneath a protective arm at night. The man’s fingers would dance across the leather grip, nervous, twitchy. But the sword remained sheathed.

Occasionally, in the times that followed, the longsword would sing again in harmony against the other man’s curved blade. A scimitar, it was called. The man from Genoa’s malice was gone, the grip looser in his hands, the swings somehow easier, but careful. Only rarely, very rarely, did the longsword taste that hateful flavor of the other man’s flesh. When it did happen, the longsword found itself unceremoniously dropped upon the ground, the man from Genoa’s concern focused on the wound the sword had caused, the fight forgotten.

The days remained as they always had, the longsword fastened tightly at the man from Genoa’s hip. So slowly and all at once -- perhaps months or years later, the longsword could not say -- the nights began to change. Cleaned, oiled, and scabbarded, the longsword was laid out of reach of the man from Genoa’s hands. The sword was laid alongside the scimitar, their scabbards brushing, just as the man from Genoa laid alongside the man from beneath the walls, the one with the blood the longsword could not bear to drink, the man who had become the man from Genoa’s travelling companion, his constant friend, the moon to the man from Genoa’s fiery sun. And the longsword found that lying next to the scimitar felt right, too.


End file.
